Hayaidesu
by Harlequil
Summary: "If everything seems under control, you're not going fast enough." ―Mario Andretti
1. Prelude

_A/n: This story takes places during and after Tokyo Drift. And will continue to Furious 7. Though neither appear in this chapter, this story is Han/OFC. This is simply a prelude. One that contains spoilers for Furious 7. So if you haven't seen it yet, I strongly advise you to click that back button._

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 **Tokyo, Japan. 2015.**

Dominic Toretto is a man on mission. Two missions in fact. Retrieval and payback. Retrieval, the first and most important mission, pertained to bringing one of his greatest friends home and giving him a proper funeral. Han Seoul-Oh. Original member of The Crew, The Team, and his brother in arms was dead. While not new to him, grief twisted his heart and angered him. Refusing to allow that all-encompassing ire to consume him Dom's hands tightened unconsciously on his steering wheel. Payback, the opportunity to unleash that anger would come soon. Deckard Shaw, the man who took Han from this world would ultimately feel the depth of his wrath.

After landing in the famed metropolis that was Tokyo, Dominic pulled into a parking garage located in the Shibuya district just as the sun sank halfway beneath the horizon. He got out of his 1970 Plymouth Road Runner—a muscle car known for its ability to do a quarter mile in fourteen seconds—and was instantly bombarded by a plethora of racing enthusiasts. They proceeded to throw questions and adulation at him.

"Is that a Road Runner?"

"The mileage on it must be insane!"

"How fast does this go?"

"The paint job is sick!"

"Dom right?" The last caught his attention and he looked at the boy with brown cornrows and eyes staring at him.

"Who's asking?" Dom asked in his signature gravelly tone.

"Twinkie." The boy said confidently, adjusting his baseball cap. "I'm p— _was_ a part of Han's crew. He mentioned you a few times. There's a picture of your team in his garage."

Though he knew there weren't many alternatives for those raised in the streets, Dom found himself looking at the boy somewhat disapprovingly. _Recruiting teenagers? Han, what were you thinking?_ With things such as racing and all it entailed, the risks would often outweigh the rewards. Not many knew better than Dom how high the stakes were. Normally he couldn't bring himself to care much about those risks because they were necessary. But since yet another member of his crew—his family—was gone as the result of one. That truth had never been more painfully apparent. Masking his contrition, he smiled at Twinkie. "Han talked about you. Told me you're quite the hustler."

Twinkie grinned at the praise. "Next to him, he said you were one of best racers the world had ever seen. I'll have to take his word for it."

"Well you're about to get a chance to see me in action." Dom surveyed the area around them, getting the attention of the race orchestrator. He leaned against the automobile and inclined his head imperceptibly, signaling his wish to race. Upon receiving one in return, he turned back to Twinkie. "I hear there's a new Drift King in town. I'd like to test his skill."

"Sean?" Twinkie concluded, looking unsure. "I don't know if he's up to it right now."

Dom crossed his arms. "Tell him I knew Han." That ought to peak his interest.

"Alright. I'll go talk to him." Twinkie made his way through an unending mass as Dom climbed into his car. He drove until he was at the makeshift starting line. Before long a Nissan Silvia S-15 Spec-R pulled up alongside him. The driver, Sean, inspected Dom's vehicle with a critical eye. Approval crossed his features when he recognized the make and model.

"Nice ride."

"I won it from our friend Han a few years ago."

"I didn't know he was into American muscle." Sean commented wryly.

"He was when he was rolling with me."

"You know this ain't no ten second race." Sean teased, quoting one of Dom's most famous lines.

Dom grinned in return. "I got nothing but time." He revved the Road Runner's engine. "You ready, kid?" He challenged.

Challenge accepted, Sean simply smirked before putting his game face on. The underlying energy around them readily intensified as the last traces of daylight disappeared. The crowd gathered as the two racers got into position. The moon began its ascent into the night's sky and the cheering grew rampageous.

The starter raised her arms. "Ready! Set! Go!" Neela lowered her arms and they took off. Layers of tire rubber adhered to the pavement and wisps of smoke exhaust from their cars casting an electrifying backdrop in their wake. Indicative of the lawless and exhilarating act that would momentarily follow.

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Not fifteen minutes later the two racers were leaning against the side of the parking garage, basking in the aftermath of their latest escapade. "Han said you was fast, but not that damn fast." Sean said in his southern drawl, effectively congratulating him on his win.

"Who said American muscle can't drift." Dom boasted proudly.

Sean glanced away, visage adopting a look of contemplation. "Han said he left his enemies in his rearview. He never talked about it much."

"Always playing it close to the vest."

Sean brought out a small sack and rummaged through it, expression solemn. "We found a couple of things by the crash." He pulled out a plastic bag with a single item in it. A photo. "Wasn't much left." He remarked, handing it to Dom.

The older racer took Han's treasured belonging reverently, already guessing whose face would grace the prized picture. Surprise filled him when he saw not the slender beauty that was Gisele Yashar but another. A young woman with a tumble of black hair and hazel eyes. Dom turned the image over, reading the information scrawled across the back. He then looked to Sean, normally taciturn countenance displaying grim perplexion. He hadn't thought Han capable of moving on, but he apparently had. "Whose Ricci?"


	2. Chapter 1

_**A/n: Sorry for the long wait. I originally planned to post this within the first week of publishing but wanted to phrase this chapter a certain way. Thanks to all the new people who favorited, followed and reviewed. I didn't expect this big or quick of a response. Know your faith in me is appreciated. A detail before we continue, Ricci is pronounced like Richie.** **Enjoy!**_

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 **Tokyo, Japan. Three Months Earlier.**

A nervous wreck. That was how someone could describe Ricci Ueda right now. High strung energy coiled through her freely as she walked purposefully down a crowded sidewalk in the Roppongi district. Arriving at her destination, she stopped opposite a Tokyu Hands department store. Surreptitiously ducking behind an outdoor goods shop, she deposited the conspicuous black bag that had been hanging from her shoulder on the cleanest available patch of ground. Pushing loose strands of hair behind her ear, her eyes roved the space around her for a perceptible flux of movement. When there was none to be found, she expelled a breath and began her venture. Grateful that she was covered by the blanket of night, she brought out her cellphone and typed a brief message.

 _I made it. Keep a look out_ _._

Not seconds later came a succinct reply: _Done_ _._

Satisfied that her text had been received, Ricci crouched and unzipped the bag. Quickly she reached into it, retrieving a respirator and pair of gloves to protect herself from her imminent endeavor. Blocking out the sounds of the city, she donned the equipment and set about her task. After applying adhesive to a blank portion of grey wall, she placed one of her graffiti stencils flush on top of it. Now came the easy part. Yet the restlessness within her had intensified. But that disquiet was undeniably mingled with something else. Anticipation.

Steeling her nerves Ricci reached into the bag again, hand coming away with a can of red spray paint. She shook it, steadied by the sound the marble ball inside rattling against tinplate created. Pushing down on the nozzle, she was rewarded by the quiet hiss from the can as she commenced spraying over card stock, effectively transferring one of her sketches from paper to brick. Expeditiously a bright piece adorned previously drab and gloomy stone. She watched as red mixed with black then white and before her eyes came an image of a pensive and apart geisha contrasting starkly against blue cacophony. Removing the stencil, she knelt and put the finishing touch on it—the kanji ideogram for courage.

As she stepped back to examine her handiwork for flaws, her phone sprang to life in her pocket. She pulled it out once more, brow furrowing as she looked at the screen. _Nothing on my end, but you might want to wrap it up. Police are in the area._

Well aware of the looming sense of urgency and not wanting to stay longer than necessary, Ricci took the senders advice. Committing the image of the piece to memory, she took off the incriminating gear with adept efficiency and threw now empty aerosol cans into a nearby dumpster. Yanking down the hood of the jacket she wore, she proceeded to exit the alleyway. Careful to move at a steady pace so as not to draw attention to herself, she paused when a familiar Honda Civic parked at the stretch of curb beside her and promptly got in. Tossing her bag on the backseat, she buckled her seat belt and faced the driver's side.

Seated there was a small slip of a girl with pink hair and questionable fashion sense. Eriko Tsutsumi, idyllic procrastinator and self-proclaimed video game professional. "Explain why I'm here again." She said whilst merging into traffic.

"Because the hunk of metal I consider a car broke down. I'd have taken my bike, but should I get caught my chances of getting away are slim. And who better a getaway driver than the friend whose foot is glued to the accelerator."

Eriko scoffed indignantly in response. "My foot is not _glued_ to the accelerator."

"It's not?" Ricci asked mordantly. Her eyes wandered to the instrument on the dashboard that showed the vehicle's velocity. The red needle of the speedometer appeared to go ever higher; it was a miracle that an overzealous officer hadn't spotted and pulled them over yet. Then again Roppongi is infamous for its nightlife and ability to cater to the more risqué of predilections. Thus any police official's attention is probably divided and needed elsewhere. Part of the reason this section of Japan was a favorite of hers in terms of putting up street art.

Noting the source of her gaze, Eriko swiftly lifted her boot off the gas pedal and switched to the break. Just in time for the traffic light to turn red. One corner of her mouth quirked upward into a fond smile as she lightly hit Ricci's shoulder. "Smart aleck. So I have a propensity for speed." She shrugged indolently. "Sue me."

"If you don't keep your eyes on the road someone will take you up on that offer." Ricci said in a brusque manner. Though she knew Eriko's driving skills were exceptionally good, she couldn't stop herself from staring at the small distance between Eriko's bumper and that of the car in front of them.

"What about you?" Eriko countered. "You're hardly the poster child for lawfulness. Most view graffiti as vandalism after all."

"Well _I_ view as art. I get why people are angered by it, but it's not like I'm hurting anyone in an irreversible way. Paint or a good solvent will put wrong to rights." She also never put it on sacred places, businesses or private property—the primary source of umbrage and ire.

From an artistic perspective, Ricci saw sheer beauty in the craft that was Rakugaki. Upon seeing the empty spaces the built world created, she wanted to breathe life into them and fill that vacuity with something to ponder, admire or get excited about. She liked street art for its own sake and enjoyed how thought provoking it could be at times. As someone who had a penchant for art since childhood, she'd experimented with different techniques and materials like acrylic, watercolor and wheat paste. After years of working on paper, canvases and indoor walls, she'd wanted to try to get a stencil up in a public space. Three and a half years ago, she'd finally gotten up the courage to do so on her sixteenth birthday and had been doing it ever since.

"To be honest I don't see the appeal." Eriko stated bluntly.

Not faulting her for that outlook, Ricci considered saying that she didn't expect her to but ultimately said nothing. From a subjective perspective, there was no merit in graffiti and it was just the illegal unnecessary act of defacing buildings. Which was admittedly true in most cases; while the occasional piece is deemed as art, a large percent of graffiti was meaningless tags or promoting a political agenda. Although Ricci didn't partake in either practice, the standard for public conformity is high in Japan and conceivable reactions to street art is a relatively minor example of that. Should she get caught it could spark a media frenzy and result in harsh punishments and steep fines. Her expression grew serious as she considered how this possibility would affect not only her but her parents as well.

As a nontraditional couple, they'd faced more than their fair share of adversity, especially here in Japan. Though she didn't want to add to that and risked being labeled a delinquent the rest of her life, Ricci couldn't see herself doing anything else. Getting a rap sheet as long as her arm seemed worth it, if skewed perspective wise. She'd accepted some time ago that the life of a street artist wasn't simple or acceptable. Retaining anonymity was essentially invaluable.

Speaking of, Ricci looked over at Eriko. Their friendship had always been a strange one. Ricci didn't have the most shining of personalities—she wasn't open, quick to trust or smile—so Eriko's colorful, somewhat hyperactive personality had flustered her during their initial meeting but she'd eventually gotten used to it. The decision to confide in her had been difficult. Even if Eriko demonstrated herself to be cool under fire and an exemplary confidant, at least Ricci had signed up for the long term ramifications her so called career choice posed.

Fiddling with one of the rings on her hand she said, "We shouldn't make a habit of this. I don't want you to get into trouble on my account."

"I'd like to think I can handle one misdemeanor or accessory charge." Eriko said airily.

Ricci frowned, affronted. "Very funny." She quipped sarcastically.

Eriko laughed before her countenance became completely unhumorous. "If you think it best, fine. But that doesn't mean I'll hesitate to protect you should the need arise."

"I'll just have to make sure it doesn't then."

The two of them lapsed into silence and Ricci stared out at the passing scenery. As they passed Shinjuku Station, the apprehension from earlier returned and increased twofold. If anyone in her household was awake as she suspected, a reprimand couldn't be far away.

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 _ **A/n: A few things before I sign off. Chapters won't normally be this small a length and I sadly can't promise that updating will be frequent, because my writing pace is undeniably sluggish.**_

 _ **The image I'm using for a cover is by Brazilian street artist** **L7M. The illustration is that of a graffiti bird and if you like the piece, I encourage you to check out his or any street artist's artwork. Also, Tokyu Hands is a real series of department stores in Japan and in this instance the company spells Tokyo a certain way. Lastly, as some of you may have surmised Rakugaki is the Japanese word for graffiti. Thanks for reading.**_


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